


Lap Dance (2)

by anonymousmadame2911



Series: The Blue Hippo and the Pink Pussycat [6]
Category: Chris Evans (actor) - Fandom
Genre: Black Reader, Dominant Reader, F/M, Hand Job, Strip Tease, Stripper Reader, Sub Chris Evans, burlesque reader, dom reader, submissive Chris Evans, woman of color
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 22:44:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousmadame2911/pseuds/anonymousmadame2911
Summary: The second lap dance between the reader and Chris





	Lap Dance (2)

Louis, what you believed Suit #1’s name was, hadn’t met you in the lobby when you arrived at the glass-covered skyscraper. The security guard led you to the correct elevator that would take you to the 58th floor. An NBC page led you to his office.   
“Hey! Glad you could make it. Come in. Come in! Have a seat. You want anything to drink?”  
“No thanks. I’m good.”  
“Thanks Stella. Can you get me an iced Americano and a croissant from Bouchon?”  
You had dressed appropriately: business slacks, a button-up rolled up to the elbows, and suede ballet flats.   
“So it’s just the two of us?”  
“Yeah. Chris is on set and Ben is meeting with some people from Coke about funding this movie. Let me grab the storyboards and we can move over to the bigger table.”  
He stood up and the two of you moved to a large glass table that sat off to the side of the room. There was a messy couch with a blanket tossed over the back. Books, papers, some props and scripts littered his office.   
“In the script, Chris plays a CIA agent who is meeting an informant at your club. The scene will be brief—maybe 5, no more than 10 minutes. You can use your own costume. That will be up to you. And we’ll pay you a flat rate since you aren’t with SAG. We’d like to offer you $1000.”  
You shot him a frown. $1000 wasn’t a lot of money.   
“You know what? I don’t think so. It isn’t that much money. I don’t know how many times the director will want to re-shoot…how many costumes that I’ll have to make that will eventually get destroyed…if I get injured for whatever reason…No.”  
“$1000 is a great offer.”  
“No. It isn’t. And I bet you pay more to a choreographer.”  
“You aren’t a choreographer. You aren’t a professional dancer even.”  
“I’m not. I created the costume from scratch. I created the routine from scratch. It’s clearly good enough that you want to put it in your movie. I bet you try to steal it from me.”  
“Uh…no. No. We wouldn’t do that.”  
“Right. Because I’d get a lawyer in a heart beat. You call me when you change your mind about the price and then we can talk. Really talk.”  
You swept out of the office. You made your way back down to the subway and back to your tiny studio. You were exhausted. You had spent the whole night at the Pink Pussycat and gone straight to this bullshit meeting. Not even one piece of eye candy as far as the eye could see. You returned to your apartment by 9:15 am. You flopped into your cool bed and fell into a deep sleep.   
The buzzing vibration of your phone woke you with a text from Crystal.   
“Emergency. 9-1-1 bitch. Can you take my shit tonight? Juan’s dad has come up from Honduras and is trying to take him.”  
“Yeah. What time?”  
“Thank you! 10 to 6 am. But you know how they always close early because it’s always slow. Thank you!”  
You set an alarm for 7 pm, calculating that you’d need an hour to shower and get ready and another hour to take the subway to get to the Pink Pussycat. You fall back into a deep sleep. You woke with a start and jump out of bed. You rummage through your cabinets looking for something quick to eat. Chips, the breakfast of champions, and a Coke. You rush off to the subway after a quick shower and check of all your areas. Not a hair out of place.   
“Busy tonight?”  
“Nope. Just one customer so far.”  
Your shift dragged on. You never minded taking Crystal’s shift. She always had the bad ones. You wished that management would help her out and give her some juicy morsels, like sending her to bachelor parties. Unfortunately, bachelor party season was over and winter was creeping in. Three am came and went and the one customer hadn’t paid for any lap dances. He’d barely even given you any singles when you did the stage show. He left a little before four. 4:15 came and went. Then, the second customer of the night came in at 4:30 am. He was tall, wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap low over his eyes, broad across the chest. He ordered a beer and you disappeared backstage to prepare for the stage show. While you were handing your music to the DJ, the manager grabbed you by the elbow and pulled you into the dressing room.  
“He wants a lap dance.”  
“What?”  
“He said he wants a lap dance.”  
“Ah. OK.”  
You change into your white bikini, throwing on your latex boy shorts and tank top on over it. You check your makeup in the mirror and reapply the setting spray hoping it will all stay in place. You grab your iPod and the water bottles. You head over to the customer to bring him back to the VIP room.   
“If you don’t mind, I’d like ten dances.”  
Your eyebrows shoot to the sky. You’d never had anyone ask for ten lap dances straight off the bat. Straight men, especially white men, were cheap. They were always asking you for sex for free. Then, offering to pay. Then, getting pissed off because you kept saying “no.” They hardly tipped unless they came in their pants. Then, they did it out of embarrassment. They’d grab whatever they had in their wallets, threw it on the floor and ran out of the room. If you got them to cum, you knew it was going to be a good night. You’d get whatever money they had and you didn’t have to work for it. Not really, anyways.   
“Sure. 10 lap dances. At $100 each. That’ll be—“  
“$1000. Do you take credit?”  
“Cash only.”  
“Here you go.”  
He just handed you ten $100 bills. Who the fuck was this guy? You grabbed the money, shoving it down your bra, and walked over to the cash register. You keyed in the dances and put the money in the till.   
“Follow me.”  
He got off the bar stool and followed you into the VIP room. He seemed like a nice guy, but they always do at first. He followed you a little too closely which made you nervous and twitchy. He outpaced you walking across the club. Cool. Another weirdo at the club. You ushered him into the VIP room and shut the door. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.  
“I heard they offered you a price for your routine?”  
“Oh! Uh…yeah? Yeah. How’d you know?”  
“Ben told me. Louis is a bit of a cheapskate. You’re right to hold out for more money. It’s part of the industry. They offer you the lowest price and if you take it, then they luck out. They expect you to say ‘no’ immediately.”   
“Would’ve been nice to know that going into the meeting, Christopher.”  
“Only my mom calls me ‘Christopher,’ just call me Chris.”   
He laughed. You pull out the Velcro restraints.   
“Remember the rules. Dancers can touch the customers but the customers can’t touch the dancers.”  
His pink tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip.  
“Right. Maybe you’d better tie me up now. I’m not sure I have any self-control.”  
“Really?!” you screeched.  
You playfully rolled your eyes at him and gently pushed him into the chair. You tied his wrists to the legs of the chair. He wiggles his arms to see if he could get out.  
“Keep trying. I’d like to see you bust out of that.”  
“I think you did a good job,” he smiled at you.  
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”  
“I paid for ten dances. I’d better enjoy it.”  
“We’ll see,” you replied dryly.  
“Wait a minute. Wait. I’m sitting on my wallet. Let me just take it out.”  
You pull open the restraints so he can get up. He takes out a bulging wallet and puts it by the stage where he can see it. He sits back in the chair. He grunts when you tie him down to the chair again. You look up at him and smirk. You saunter over to the speaker and start your play list. You twist around the pole. You flip upside down and grab the heel of your Lucite stiletto. His eyes are trained on your every movement. You slip out of your tank top and wiggle out of your boy shorts. The white bikini is perfect for picking up the neon lights. You body-wave against him and you brush your chest against his evident hard on. You flip around and bounce your ass on him. You close his knees and straddle him. You slowly grind against him. You are an inch from his lips staring into his clear blue eyes. You lean over and whisper in his ear.  
“I guess you like my work.”  
“You know I do.”  
You smirk at him and untie your top. You pull it off and throw it onto the stage. You forego spilling water down your body for more intimate contact. His eyes are trained on your chocolate nipples as you lean over him again. You see him attempt to take it in his mouth before you pull away from him.  
“Remember. I can touch you. But you can’t touch me.”  
You trace your finger along the edge of his pants. You see in the mirrors how tightly he’s gripping the chair legs and how fast he’s panting into your hair. You give him a reprieve and continue your routine up on the pole. You don’t want him to cum in his pants just yet. You are completely bare in front of him by the end of your first dance. By the tenth dance, you were done playing games. Now, you were playing for keeps. You started by unbuckling his belt and jeans and pushing them open. You ran your fingers against the inside of the elastic on his boxer briefs while smirking into his cerulean eyes. He jolted as your finger tips made contact with the head of his dick. From grinding on him, you could tell he was a good size. Not too large. Not too small. Now, you were going to find out for yourself. You grabbed his belt loops.   
“Up.”  
He propped his hips up so you could pull his pants down to his knees. You put your thumbs on the inside of the elastic on his boxer briefs.  
“Again?”  
You nodded.   
He thrust his hips up and you pulled his underwear down to his knees where his jeans were. He was about 7 inches. Cut. Smooth. Pink. Hard. Not too big. Not too small. Just perfect for you to work with. You returned to the stage and reached under it. You pulled out a bottle of cocoa butter and put it under his chair. You returned to grinding on him, knowing the big finish would nearly kill him. You reached under and squeezed a healthy amount into the palms of your hands. You wrapped both hands tightly around the head and worked your way down. You twisted up and around and back down. You continued until you saw his hips work in concert with your hands. You watched him flex and clench his hands against the Velcro restraints.   
“I didn’t think the dancers were allowed to do that,” he grits out.  
“Nope,” you say casually, “I only do it for guys that I like.”  
You continue twisting and turning your hands around his hard shaft. He struggles against the restraints until he shoots cum. He quivers and twitches long after the last of the cum spills out of him.  
“You know…I like…I like…I like you too.”  
He can barely speak through the convulsions wracking his body. You smile up at him from your knees. You stand up and grab the box of wet wipes and tissues from under the stage. He cocks an eyebrow.  
“I always come prepared.”  
You smirk at him and clean him up. You rip open the Velcro and hand him the box of tissues. He stands up and you’re reminded of how tall he is and how broad he is in comparison to you. He wipes the cum off of his belly and his dick. He tucks himself back inside his underwear and pulls up his pants.   
“I’d tip you, but I don’t want you to think I just paid you…for…that.”  
“No. You can tip me.”  
He opens his wallet and hands you all the money in it.  
“I’d ask you if you need a ride home, but last time you said ‘no.’”  
“You can give me a ride home. I’m really tired after today. You can give me all the gossip on Louis and Ben. Wait here.”  
You grab your costume and things from under the stage and head to the dressing room. You change into your jeans and T-shirt. You grab your outfits and tuck them into your locker. You lock them away and head back to the VIP room. You take the restraints off the chair and tuck them into your bag. You check the room.   
“OK. Ready?”  
“Yup. Let’s go.”  
He holds the door open and places a hand on the small of your back as you walk past him. The seemingly sweet and innocent gesture makes your heart pound.   
“I can call a car or we can get a taxi if you prefer.”  
“Night,” you shout at the bouncer, turning back to Chris, “a taxi will be faster. There’s one right there.”  
You jump into the back seat with him right behind you. You give the driver your address. The lull of the car puts you in a trance-like state and within minutes, your head is on Chris’s shoulder. He attempts to put his arm around your shoulders and pull you into him, but you push his arm down, opting for leaning on his shoulder. He chuckles lowly at how stubborn you are when you’re tired.   
“Hey, hey. Wake up. I think the driver needs directions.”  
You slowly blink and lift your head, orienting yourself.   
“Yesh…uh…ack…yes. Just turn right up here. Then U-turn, and turn left. We went too far.”  
The taxi driver takes you back the way you came.   
“Ah! Here. Just pull up over here.”  
He stops off the main road.   
“Do you take credit cards?”  
You shove a $20 bill at the driver while Chris stands outside fumbling with his wallet.  
“I got it. Let’s go.”  
You walk quickly off of the main road and down a side street. Chris follows quickly behind you. You quietly enter your building and lead him up to your studio. You’re too tired to care that you’re about to bring an actor who just made a billion dollars off of his last movie into your tiny place. You’re too exhausted to care that about 99 % of the global population would be screaming to have him that close to their bodies. You just don’t care. You want to take off your clothes and get straight into bed. You groggily show him where the bathroom is if he needs it, where the water is in the fridge if he needs it, and give him a tour of your place.  
“Kitchen, living room and bedroom. All in one. If you get lost, it’s your own fault for being stupid.”  
He chuckles at you.  
“Listen, I know I just gave you a hand job at the club. But I’m really tired. So, if you’re wanting sex, you’ll need to knock on the neighbor’s door. She’ll be happy to give it to you. Otherwise, I’m going straight to sleep and I sleep naked. So, deal with it.”  
He looks at you skeptically as you take your clothes off and wiggle into bed.   
“So, what’s your choice? You sleeping here or going next door?”  
“Here. Definitely here.”  
He strips to nothing and climbs in next to you. You are suddenly grateful that you have nothing planned for tomorrow. You desperately need the sleep. You feel him place his head on your chest and wrap his arms around your waist. You wrap your arms around him and kiss the top of his head before drifting off.


End file.
